


Civilian Casualties

by notanescalator



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Multi, Non-Linear Narrative, Vignettes, angst angst baby, more relationships and characters may come, some canon divergence, with some fluff for balance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-24
Updated: 2016-11-23
Packaged: 2018-09-01 20:19:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8636800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notanescalator/pseuds/notanescalator
Summary: “Surely you’re not going to turn me down, Rogers.” She smiled, and he couldn’t help but smile back.
“What if I step on your feet?”
“Oh, I’m made of stronger stuff than you think.”-This began with my disappointment at Peggy's treatment in the events of Civil War, and as a way out of that disappointment I wanted to write those scenes - her relationship with Steve, the impact of her death on Sharon and Steve without the weird romantic subplot. It then sort of expanded into a series of "Deleted Scenes" which covered things I felt should have been touched on better, and weren't, either in Civil War or some of the previous movies. e.g. the effect of Pietro's death on Wanda, Rhodey's side of his relationship with Tony, Bucky and Steve's interaction in Civil War. There is no clear plot to this, the result is more of a series of vignettes. I hope you like it all the same.





	

STEVE  
  
“I know I keep asking—”  
  
“Well, I keep forgetting, so it’s even,” murmured Peggy, her smile sharp. Steve grinned down at his lap, though the joke was bittersweet.  
  
Age and illness were no match for her spirit, Steve noted, for which he was desperately grateful. Those same eyes that had looked at him across the murk of wartime bars, over charts and maps and decoded intelligence, eyes full of amusement and affection, forbidding any bullshit, looked back at him now. Sometimes, it stung. He had tried to sketch – from memory - the photograph of her that he had carried around in his compass, with limited success. He preferred to think that rather than him being a poor artist, Peggy Carter was simply irreproducible.  
  
It seemed right.  
  
“Is it okay, that I’m here?” he asked, raising his head. “Seeing me, can’t be easy. You had your own life, and I respect that, Peggy. I really do.” He tried to keep the smile steady on his face, needing her to believe him. “The circumstances we met under were…” He shook his head. “It made its mark. On everybody. I don’t want you to feel obligated, because of what we-” _what we had_ “-what we went through.”  
  
Peggy looked up at him for a few silent moments, gaze searching and fond ( _always so dramatic_ ), then reached over and took his hand, squeezing it. He held onto it with both of his, as if protecting it, like she was made of glass. Like she could disappear. “Steve… I’ve had to say goodbye to so many, so many people. And for people like us, every time we say goodbye to someone who shared that, we feel a little more lost. You had that all at once.” Steve hadn’t realized that tears had fallen until she touched his cheek, brushed one away. “When I lost Gabe, I didn’t only lose my husband. I lost the last friend who knew, who had seen what I’d seen and more. And then here you were.” She lowered her hand, smiling gently. “Hadn’t aged a day.”  
  
That pulled a sudden laugh out of Steve, bashful, and he wiped at the corner of his eyes with his thumb quickly.  
  
“You changed my life, even after you were gone. Where I got to, what I did, I had to do so much of it alone. But I’d think, what would he do? The reckless, wonderful man, who never backed down from a fight? And I pushed harder.” Her grip tightened and tentatively, so did his. “And I thou... I thought I’d never see you again, never have the chance to say thank you. You being here, it’s a gift, Steve.”  
  
There were tears in her eyes but she was still smiling. Steve tried to say something, anything, but his throat drew tight, and to avoid breaking down he had no choice but to hide his face where his hands covered hers.  
  
*  
  
Steve could sense the end coming, although he would never say it out loud, not even to an empty room. He couldn’t stop it, and there was nothing Steve hated more than sitting by, helpless. His skin crawled, he slept fitfully, he went for endless morning runs until even his feet started to feel numb. And in the meantime, when he wasn’t chasing another cold trail of Bucky’s, or on a mission, he spent time with Peggy.  
  
If there was a lot of family milling around, he would excuse himself early, even though Peg’s family would never dream of making him feel unwelcome. Her seven-year-old grandniece, Maisha, badgered him endlessly about The Falcon and Black Widow, begged him for stories. Eventually, Steve just showed up with Sam and Nat – he thought the little girl was going to explode. Sam hoisted her up on his shoulders and asked her questions about what sort of pilot she was going to be. Nat promised to teach her how to fight one day. Days like those, he’d look past them at Peggy, warm and peaceful, and it felt for a while like he hadn’t lost anything after all.  
  
On bad days, he realized he was clinging to a dream, because he showed up and that look of utter shock in Peggy’s face made his insides turn to ice. It took every scrap of energy to keep his smile steady, as he walked her through it again, like a recurring nightmare. Every time it happened he considered not coming back, because he didn’t want to risk upsetting her too much at this stage, but mostly because he was afraid. Then when he remembered that every day could be his last with her, he always went rushing back. Because Steve Rogers didn’t run from anything, so why run from this?  
  
One day she got a burst of strength, seemingly from nowhere. When he came in, she was sitting upright, in the chair by the window, eyes impossibly bright. “You know, you still owe me a dance, Captain Rogers.” He laughed at first – it was like a running joke at this point, but they’d never actually had it because she was too frail. This time, though, she pressed the matter. “Sadly, my record player is broken. But my niece got me an iPod.”  
  
Steve looked at the device on the bedside table, and then blinked at her, skeptical. “Peggy, I—”  
  
“Surely you’re not going to turn me down, Rogers.” She smiled, and he couldn’t help but smile back.  
  
“What if I step on your feet?”  
  
“Oh, I’m made of stronger stuff than you think.”  
  
It wasn’t as energetic as it once would have been. Regardless of what Peggy said, Steve was wary, and they mostly swayed in place, one of his hands in hers, and the other locked around her waist in case she fell. She teased him about it, and he replied with a joke about behaving like a gentleman, and they fell into silence, songs from the late 30s and early 40s filling the corners of the room. He closed his eyes for a moment, remembering the vision he had seen of the ballroom after the war. What sort of life would they have had, if he hadn’t gone into the water? Would they have married in a church back home, Peggy in white, wearing his mother’s ring? Would he have been able, one day, to tell her about Bucky?  
  
Peggy coughed lightly against his chest.  
  
_Do you think I'll remember  
  
How you looked when you smiled?  
  
Only forever  
  
That's puttin' it mild_  
  
*  
  
Steve wanted to ask why, after all this time, she was suddenly so determined to fulfill their date. Then he realized he already knew.  
  
He sat with her all that night, half on the bed, her sleeping against his shoulder. He stayed awake, guarding.  
  
_Not tonight.  
  
_ The text came three days later.  
  
\---  
  
RHODEY  
  
The suits stink – that’s what they never tell you.  
  
Flying around in the sun, encased in tech and metal is a one way ticket to being a human sweat bucket. Tony had apparently toyed with air conditioning in the suits since a little after Mark II’s first flight. However, you could only do so much in that space, and he had modestly conceded that it had some “functionality issues”. Which was Tony-speak for “I don’t know what the fuck to do about it, but I’m not gonna say that”.  
  
There was a sort of air freshener built in, but in James’s humble opinion it was a glorified version of using body spray to cover up a fart. He left it off because it made him feel like a flying Little Tree.  
  
All this to say, James was stomping sweatily around Syria, mentally cursing his best friend’s name, when he got the call back to base.  
  
_Thank God.  
  
_ He pushed himself into the sky, the weight of his limbs easing momentarily with the exhilaration of flight. In this area, he was currently instructed not to drop below 500ft, for fear of attracting unnecessary attention from locals. It was fine by him. Embarrassment kept him from saying it aloud, but he got a kick every time he flew War M-… Iron Patriot. It kinda made him feel like a superhero.  
  
Well, his kid self’s idea of a superhero, anyway. All the ones he knew were reckless idiots. Sure, Steve was a pretty cool guy (something James didn’t voice too much, too often, because Tony had a Complex thanks to Howard), and _maybe_ he geeked out internally when they first met, but just because you’re superhuman doesn’t mean you should jump out of planes without a fucking chute.  
  
The sun was almost gone when he reached base, the higher points of the sky cooling to blue. Suit out of the way, he was told by a second lieutenant that General Martinez wanted to speak to him.  
  
“I just wanted to say, Sir,” piped up the lieutenant, as James headed to the showers, “what an honor it is to serve with Iron Patriot.”  
  
His shoulders sagged. _The old name was cooler.  
  
_ Ten minutes later he stood before Martinez, skin still tingling from the hot water. The funny thing about the general was, he always looked like he had bad news to deliver. So no alarm bells sounded when he gazed morosely at James over the rim of his glasses.  
  
“Colonel, while you were in the field today, I received a communication-” he pushed his glasses further up his nose, and flattened a file out on his desk, “-concerning Tony Stark.”  
  
James felt himself age ten years. It was official, he was never having kids. He had enough experience being dragged to the principal’s office over Tony’s stupid ass, only in his case the principal was the government.  
  
Forgetting himself for a moment, he sighed out: “What’s he done now?”  
  
Martinez said nothing for a beat, then took off his glasses and placed them on top of the paper. “Rhodes, you misunderstand me. We’ve been informed that following an incident at his residence in Malibu, Mr. Stark is presumed dead.”  
  
It was that feeling, like when your ears popped on an airplane.  
  
Everything seemed muted and distant, as he tried to rationalize _Stark_ and _dead_ being in the same sentence. He thought of Afghanistan, of being told to expect the worst. For a few moments James didn’t move or speak. His face felt too tight. Eventually, he forced out words, voice low but steady. “Um… I’m sorry, Sir, I don’t understand.” He laughed, or something like it.  
  
“Shortly after Mr. Stark challenged the Mandarin to a confrontation, it appears an attack was made-”  
  
“That house was supposed to be in lockdown, there was military presence. I picked those people myself.”  
  
Martinez paused, excusing the force of James’s anger, and then spoke again somewhat kindly. “Please, have a seat, Colonel. Read it for yourself.”  
  
He felt anger and confusion tumbling over each other, and a sort of empty space he dimly realized would be filled by something later.  
  
He was angry at Tony for antagonizing the Mandarin, even though he knew it had been prompted by Happy’s injury. Even though it meant drawing the fight to Tony instead of some innocent settlement of people. He was angry on behalf of Pepper, who stood with Tony like he did, whose wellbeing was so tied to Tony’s own.  
  
And despite all that, he was angry at the people who hadn’t prevented this, at himself purely for not being there even if it made no sense, even if it solved nothing at all.  
  
*  
  
“We gotta stop meeting like this.”  
  
He tilts his face toward James – deceptively angelic in more ways than one – and smiles. If they weren’t already outside the Dean’s office, James would be tempted to punch it. Instead he faced forward, military-rigid and poised, because he didn’t trust his limbs to behave otherwise.  
  
“Don’t talk to me, Stark.”  
  
But of course he just goes righ- “Don’t worry, pal. _This_? This is just a formality. They have to be seen to spoil our fun. We’ll be out before you can say ‘slapped wrist’.”  
  
_Fun?!_  
  
James swivels in his chair before he knows he’s done it, leans forward into Tony’s space so that his anger is inescapable. Tony doesn’t move, not even when James jabs a finger in the vicinity of his chest. “No, listen, for you? Maybe. I’m well aware what you white, trust fund boys get away with in places like this.” He laughed, hollow and short. “Preparation for the real world is right. But me? I’m a black kid in MIT. I don’t get nine lives. They _look_ for excuses to kick us out of places like this. They invent them, Tony. So if I have to call my mom tonight and tell her I got kicked out of school for stealing school property? I want you to remember that next time you’re having fun.”  
  
He briefly acknowledged the dimming of confidence in Tony’s eyes, if not the complete elimination of it, before turning back around. There was a heavy, guilty pause, which seemed to press from Tony against James’s side. And then, he said: “It wasn’t stealing. We bORROWed-” his voice went up here, almost theatrically, as if practicing a defense in a courtroom drama, “-equipment to stage an experiment in the interests of the school.”  
  
“Jesus, are you so naïve--”  
  
James was cut off as the Dean’s secretary piped up. “Mr Stark, Mr Rhodes? Dean Philips will see you now.” She had the unnerving ability to cease to exist right up until the moment she spoke, and James’s stomach suddenly tilted with nerves. All he could think about was the warm strength of his father’s hug when he got accepted, cologne in his nostrils, his mother batting at his shoulder to _stop hogging our son_. It was a moment before he processed that Tony was talking to him.  
  
“…this and I’ll meet you after.”  
  
“What?”  
  
Tony sighed, rolling back his shoulders, every movement a performance. Wasn’t it exhausting? “I said, you go back to the dorm now and I’ll meet you after.”  
  
James stared at him, incredulous. “Stark—”  
  
The tone of Tony’s voice had changed. “I got this, trust me.” With that, Tony disappeared into the office and shut the door behind him. And that James didn’t try to follow him, but slowly picked up his jacket and went, left him with the unsettling knowledge that – against all logic – he did.  
  
*  
  
As it turned out, his ill-advised faith wasn’t wasted, at least not on this occasion. Apparently Tony took credit for the whole endeavor, and insisted James had been roped in without disclosure of where the equipment came from (that part was actually true). He was grateful, of course, not to be expelled. But he didn’t want Tony to think that taking the blame fixed everything, so he avoided him for the next week, and the week after. He saw Tony only briefly in their shared room before bed (unless Tony was spending the night… elsewhere) or in class, and in those cases James only spoke when it was crucial. Empty of emotion, to the point.  
  
Then one night, James came back early with the intention of studying, and was surprised to find Tony propped up on his own bed, seemingly waiting for him. Off-guard, James forgot to inject the proper level of detached disapproval into his voice. “I thought you were spending the night at Laurie’s dorm?”  
  
“Nah, that ship – exceptionally engineered as it was - has sailed.” James rolled his eyes. “Anyway, I just said that so you wouldn’t spend another night as a library gremlin.”  
  
“Hnh,” was James’s grand response. He dumped his books on the bed and plopped down beside them.  
  
“You can’t stay cold forever, Rhodey.”  
  
“I’m a very patient man. It just so happens I got stuck rooming with the guy best qualified to test that patience.”  
  
“I do have a gift,” conceded Tony, face lit by a grin.  
  
It took a moment for James to realize he had been smiling back, and he smoothed out his features, leaning back on his bed. He could ruin Tony’s plan and go to the library anyway, but it seemed childish. And too much effort.  
  
“Rhodey. Hey. I took the blame, didn’t I? I apologized. Sincerely. What’s it gonna take to break the silent treatment?”  
  
James sighed, suddenly tired. “Because I’m still not sure you understand what the issue is.” He turned so that he was looking at Tony, pushing himself up onto his elbow. “You need to think about shit, _before_ you do it. There’s no use saying _oh yeah, okay, yeah I get it now_ , when it’s over. You might not be scared of losing anything, hell, you might think you have nothing to lose. But you need to think, _really_ think, about what others might lose. People who don’t have the protection you do.”  
  
Tony’s eyes had gone deep and dark as they only did when something had really reached him, gaze shifting away. He reached over and adjusted something on his bedside table, then cleared his throat. “This.” Tony flicked his finger between himself and James. “I’m scared of losing this. It’s important to me that I don’t screw this up, that I don’t screw things up for you. Let me try.”  
  
This unmasked Tony that James had seen a few times now - the reason he hadn’t dismissed him, and his reckless, exhausting friendship – was always something shocking. Almost uncomfortable in its earnestness and lack of ego. Still, James made himself say: “Don’t just say that as a shortcut.”  
  
“It’s not. I’m not.” Tony shook his head almost excessively, like James’s doubt was something he could dispel that way. “Give me another shot.”  
  
Saying no just seemed impossible, all of a sudden. James stood up and went over to Tony, perching gingerly on the bed. He looked at Tony’s face for silent confirmation _(so we're doing this, huh?_ ) _,_ and then leaned in to press their lips together – a reversal of their first kiss. His hand carefully found the back of Tony’s neck, softly brushing his pulse with a thumb. It was like pushing a button.  
  
Tony eased on to his back and James followed, their bodies flush and warming as they kissed. James started slowly, enjoying the pull of Tony’s lips, the taste of his mouth, but he could feel impatience buzzing under Tony’s skin. And as James latched his mouth on to Tony’s neck - a hand skimming down to graze Tony’s abdomen – Tony gasped and rolled his hips involuntarily. James was already hardening, and the sound combined with the friction left him breathing out harshly against Tony’s collarbone.  
  
As always, with him, James remembered it happening in moments. A production, like everything that involved Tony, strangely non-linear.  
  
Tony hissing, _Rhodey,_ the name seeming to fill up the dark room.  
  
Clothes hitting the floor, _whump_.  
  
The lamp going out even though no one could see in, leaving them half-illuminated by campus light from outside the window.  
  
The build and roll of James’s orgasm as he gripped Tony’s slick hips.  
  
The condom wrapper crackling.  
  
The creak of the bedsprings, joining no doubt many that night, one section of an orchestra unaware of the others.  
  
James biting down on his lip as Tony’s mouth worked between his thighs. Whispering, _fuck,_ _Tony_.  
  
Tony holding onto James’s face as James pushed deep into him, into the mattress, Tony looking up at him as he did when he’d discovered something beautiful, complex. Unique.  
  
James making the decision to go over to Tony and kiss him.  
  
*  
  
Tony was a smart man, but it was a difficult concept him for him to grasp when James called it quits.  
  
“I want to be your friend, Tony,” he insisted, truthful, and he realized he’d done this while driving as an excuse to not have to look at Tony. “But I can only take so much. I can’t be your friend and your…” He trailed off, not knowing what to put there. _Fuck-buddy_ was, he very well knew, not at all accurate. _Boyfriend_ wasn’t right either, they’d never done anything so uniform as dating. Not that doing it publicly was really an option, and there was no way in hell he was gonna risk Tony using him as another way to be ostentatious – even if he didn’t realize he was doing it.  
  
_Lover_ sounded odd. And using that particular term seemed to admit to something James had made his mind up not to admit, believing (hoping) that would make it easier. He didn’t want to let Tony think he was using _him_ , that he didn’t give a shit. He had resolved unofficially to give up Tony on pain of death, but he deserved better from someone if he was going to spend his life with them. There would always be another fight and - one way or another - he would get his heart broken.  
  
“I’ve never cheated on you,” Tony said suddenly, soft but angry. And James was too side-lined by the implication that it would be considered ‘cheating’ on James to split his time with someone else, so that he didn’t respond at first. “Sure, I built up a reputation for myself. Monogamy was a dirty word before you, and not the good kind of dirty word.” He chuckled, and James accidentally met his eyes for a moment. It was the saddest damn smile he had ever seen.  
  
“Tony-”  
  
“But that night, after you forgave me for the equipment thing, there was no one else. Not after that. It was… surprisingly easy to say no to people.” James’s eyes were back on the road, watching it tug them forward past blooms of trees and kids making the most of the light summer evening. He was in danger, in this moment, of turning back. Figuratively speaking. It was easy to be angry with Tony when he was being smug, and shooting one-liners in lieu of an adult conversation. It was easy when they were both yelling, and James was so exasperated that he forgot to be careful with what exactly he was shouting.  
  
It was not easy when the personality of Tony Stark seemed to leave the room entirely, and James was left with just this guy – quiet, vulnerable, anxious. It was the side of him that was so entirely unacted, which was why it was so tempting to be lulled by it. James’s hands tightened on the wheel. “I know you never cheated,” he whispered, neglecting to add that it was something he had been afraid of, nonetheless. “This isn’t about that. I’m just… I’m tired, Tony. I’m tired of fighting with you. And I’m not just gonna walk out on you, but if I’m going to be _with_ someone-”  
  
“Then you deserve better,” Tony finished. It wasn’t bitter, as such, more resigned, like he knew it was true. Like he had been thinking the same thing all this time and was only just saying it aloud. “I mean, you’re right, obviously. You’re, uh, you’re right.”  
  
There didn’t seem to be any air left in the car. It was ironic, James reflected, in that he had done this to avoid getting his heart broken. But it had happened all the same.  
  
When they got back to the dorm, and James was reminded that they were going to have to sleep in the same room after this, he hovered in the doorway. Tony had wandered to the middle of the room and looked back at him, something almost like fear in his eyes. “Can’t I be selfish, one last time?” He smiled, and James scoffed, deciding against saying _you’ll always be selfish_. It seemed cruel, right now, when he couldn’t ignore how much Tony loved him.  
  
Instead, James closed the door, the space between them, and let himself go as Tony kissed him hungrily. And when he reached, out of habit, to turn off the light, Tony said: “No.”  
  
\---  
  
WANDA  
  
The day before, Wanda rose early, almost with the sun. For a few moments she sat upright in bed, unsure of where she was. Reality came back to her in pieces as she scanned the room, the furniture just visible in the muted morning light. She realized she had been dreaming of Pietro. He had been pushing her on the swing set in the playground they went to as kids – it was a handful of blocks away from their home, and if you stood on the top of the slide then, across the footbridge, you could see the iron fence that ran the back of their elementary school. The school wasn’t there anymore - a gash in the earth took its place.  
  
In the dream they were adults, and as he pushed her from the back he shot past her to push her again from the front. It was showing off, unnecessary, and she couldn’t stop laughing.  
  
A year had gone by so quickly.    
  
She let her magic play over her fingers for a moment, sparking like lightning. There was something cathartic about it, grounding, like squeezing a stress ball or flicking a rubber band. It was now bone-deep, part of her, the way Pietro’s abilities had been to him, the way Pietro had been to her. Something shared like their blood.  
  
The floor was cool against her bare feet as she walked to the window, threw aside the drapes. Gold sunlight was rolling across the compound lawn, painting the cluster of concrete buildings a more pleasant shade, but there was a strong wind throwing raindrops against the windowpane. Behind the row of swaying trees, there was a wall of high, gray clouds. Still, Wanda was set on going out.  
  
New York was still unfamiliar to her, and she was inundated with offers for company on her venture outside. Vision asked three times.  
  
“Whatever you need, I can have it sent in,” Tony informed her in an easy tone, making a “ _gah_ ” sound as he drained the last of his coffee. He was trying to be helpful, Wanda knew, but his pampered nature was especially difficult for her to tolerate today. _Listen, Stark, I know you probably don’t know what tomorrow is…  
  
_ She took a few seconds, rolled back her shoulders, aiming for gracious when she responded: “I know, thank you. But I just need a ride.”  
  
Fat raindrops were pelting the car windows by the time they reached the nearest commercial area. She sat in the center of the back seat, the leather feeling too smooth, the air too cool and artificial. It was as if the all the time she had spent slowly becoming accustomed to this lifestyle had melted away overnight. She gathered her hands in her lap, pushing against the idea that she was betraying her family somehow. The same name printed on that bomb was behind everything she used, everything she owned.  
  
“Here is fine,” she told the driver, Dean, when they reached the edge of town.  
  
He squinted out at the roads, misting as the cars cut through the rain. “You sure? It’s like cats and dogs.”  
  
Wanda tapped the umbrella at her side, smiled. “I came prepared.”  
  
She ducked out onto the sidewalk, umbrella aloft, and he finally pulled away when she promised she would call to be picked up. (“Mr. Stark would kill me if you got lost.”)  
  
Now, Wanda felt as if she could breathe a little more. The air was fresh and she took her time making her way across the square; she looked in at the diner and coffee shop, full to the brim and spilling noise into the air each time the doors opened. People huddled in store entrances hoping the rain would let up long enough for them to dash to their car or another store. There was a little boy and girl skipping in puddles, just out of reach of their exasperated father, and Wanda tried not to let it sting.  
  
She went down a street that turned off the main square, passing only a drenched cyclist who looked as though she had lost the will to live. Halfway down, Wanda stopped, looked around to confirm she was alone, and then set her umbrella against the wall. Water doused her for a few seconds, before she lifted her hands, spreading out a red shield that shimmered like insect wings. She took a few steps, mesmerized as she watched raindrops fall toward her and then skitter away. Initially, she had done things like this to practice, to get used to creating bigger and bigger force fields until she could cover buildings. But every so often, when she was alone, she would play with her powers. Simple movements, childish tricks, to try and remind herself that her power was not to be feared, or simply used, that it could bring her joy.  
  
She held it steady with one hand while she picked up the umbrella, swapping them over quickly so that there was a crash of water as gravity finally got its way.  
  
The store was humid, but smelled sweet. A radio crackled music from the top of a shelf, and Wanda could hear the thudding of rain underneath it, another kind of music. There was a middle-aged woman at the counter reading a newspaper, and a girl about Wanda’s age sorting shelves near the back. Wanda herself was the only customer. When she took the yahrzeit candle to the register, the woman gave her a soft look, and for a moment the ache in Wanda’s chest seemed to ease.  
  
*  
  
“What’re you looking for?” Sam asked, slightly muffled as he swallowed a mouthful of rice.  
  
“Matches. Or a lighter.” Wanda didn’t look round, but continued to root through the half a million drawers and cabinets that made up the east wing kitchen. She had a creeping suspicion that she had gone over half of them three times. Were they moving around? In this house it was entirely possible. “Is this cupboard humming, or is it me?”  
  
There was the sound of a fork hitting a bowl and then Sam appeared beside her, a spotless Zippo lighter in his palm. “Here. What’s it for?”  
  
“It’s—” Wanda hesitated, though she didn’t know why. “It’s a small thing. Personal.”  
  
Sam’s head tilted almost imperceptibly, and for a moment Wanda wondered if he would withdraw the offer. But he shrugged, put the lighter in her palm. “Just make sure I get it back, okay?”  
  
She nodded, closing her fingers around the cool metal, a small but grateful smile turning the corners of her mouth. She started for the door and then frowned, turned back. “You smoke, Sam?”  
  
His face was blank for a moment, before his gaze lowered to the lighter and something shifted behind his eyes. “Oh. No, it’s uh…” He looked back down at the bowl, chasing the last chunks of rice with his fork. “It belonged to someone else.”  
  
She watched him for a moment, metal against ceramic the only sound, painfully curious. But any question died in her throat when she noticed how tense his shoulders suddenly were, and she slipped out of the room.  
  
*  
  
_Yitgadal v'yitkadash sh'mei raba.  
B'alma di v'ra chirutei  
  
_ It seemed very final, lighting the yahrzeit for Pietro. Even mourning their parents was something they had been able to do together, and she let him light the candles because, for some reason, it always made her nervous.  
  
_v'yamlich malchutei,  
b'chayeichon uv'yomeichon  
uv'chayei d'chol beit Yisrael,  
baagala uviz'man kariv. V'im'ru: Amen.  
  
_ She moved it a few times. _There_ it could get blown out, and _that_ was too near the desk and might start a fire. Eventually she pulled out a small table so that it was halfway between her bed and the window.  
  
_Y'hei sh'mei raba m'varach  
l'alam ul'almei almaya.  
_  
She took a deep breath and held it for a moment, eyes closed, and then let it go, pushing the tension out of her limbs. “Okay,” she whispered.  
  
_Yitbarach v'yishtabach v'yitpaar  
v'yitromam v'yitnasei,  
v'yit'hadar v'yitaleh v'yit'halal  
sh'mei d'kud'sha b'rich hu,_  
  
Her hands didn’t shake as much as she expected, although it took two attempts to get a flame. She watched it dance until it made her eyes water, and moved away gingerly, as if it might go out. Perching on the bed, she looked out at the grounds, rusty orange from the sunset and glinting from the rain which had only stopped an hour ago. She felt stuck, on the verge of something, and she realized that she was waiting for the tears to start.  
  
_l'eila min kol birchata v'shirata,  
tushb'chata v'nechemata,  
daamiran b'alma. V'imru: Amen._  
  
When they didn’t come, she pulled her legs up, sat cross-legged and turned the lighter over and over in her hands. The texture of the metal, the warmth generated by her hands, seemed to pulse against her skin.  
  
_“Sometimes, since I got these powers,” she told Pietro once, “it’s like I can feel things without touching them. So when I feel things, really, on my skin, it’s like a shock.” It was the first time they had been allowed contact after the experiment, and initially, she had jolted when he tried to hug her. Eventually, when she collected herself, they sat side by side, hands joined tight as a vice.  
  
“When I use mine,” Pietro started, his voice still tentative, dry from disuse, “it’s like it melts away. I feel nothing. But you feel everything.” He smiled, wry and sleepy. “Do you think that says something about us?”  
  
Wanda mirrored his smile, rested her head on his shoulder. He was still shaking slightly, since the change. That wouldn’t stop for another three days. “Well, you were always quick-witted.”  
  
He scoffed, and rested his head against the top of hers. “So what do I feel like?”  
  
Wanda considered, and giggled when it occurred to her. “Lightning.”  
  
Pietro’s laugh echoed in the room.  
  
_ She could feel writing against her thumb, and turned the lighter over to read the bottom. “Daniel Riley.”  
  
_Oseh shalom bimromav,  
Hu yaaseh shalom aleinu,  
v'al kol Yisrael. V'imru: Amen.  
  
_ *  
  
That night she dreamed she came down to breakfast and Pietro was lounging on the couch, grin smug and knowing. “What’s the point of me being fast if I can’t outrun bullets?”    
  
How could she be mad at him? It made perfect sense.  
  
She jerked awake around 3am, her breathing the only sound, the yahrzeit the only source of light in the room. She blinked at it for a moment, and then rolled over as the tears broke out, muffling the noise against her pillow.  
  
*  
  
When she went down to breakfast several hours later, the minute, ridiculous hope that her dream could come true fizzled out. There was no sign of Pietro, only Steve and Natasha picking at breakfast and laughing at whatever had been said before she came in.  
  
“Don’t mouth off to me, Rogers, I’ll make a Tinder account in your name.”  
  
Steve looked mildly terrified. “Nat, don’t even joke about that, please.”  
  
“Hey, I’ve worked very hard on my collection of unflattering photos of you. I have two now.” Steve groaned at the same time Natasha noticed Wanda.  
  
There was a pause.  
  
“Hey,” Natasha greeted. Her eyes narrowed slightly, and for a second Wanda thought she was annoyed that Wanda had interrupted. Then she noticed Steve’s concern directed at her, and realized she probably looked like shit.  
  
“Morning.” She glanced around the room, hands tightening around the lighter with the care of someone who knows they’re holding something precious. “Is Sam around?”  
  
“He went for a run,” volunteered Steve, checking the clock, “he should be back in fifteen.”  
  
Wanda nodded. “I’ll talk a walk, then.” She knew if she stayed, she couldn’t avoid Steve’s radar of sadness forever, even if he didn’t actually ask questions.  
  
She felt their eyes on her all the way to the door, when suddenly Steve called out. “Hey, Wanda?” She looked over her shoulder at him, trying not to grimace. He scratched the side of his head. “Are you, uh…? Are you hungry?” He lifted up a nearby box of cereal as if that was necessary, and Wanda couldn’t help but smile.  
  
“I’ll eat later, thanks.”  
  
As she passed into the hall that led outside, she heard Natasha repeat in a gruff, uncertain voice: “ _Are you, uh, are you hungry_?” followed by the sound of a box of cereal being lifted and replaced.  
  
“Shut up.”  
  
*  
  
Sam found Wanda waiting for him by the double doors. His shirt was dark with sweat, sneakers muddy from contact with the wet grass. He glanced around and then back at her, his breath coming out in loud bursts. “You waiting for me?” He looked surprised to see her there, but not unpleasantly so.  
  
“I wanted to get this back to you,” she explained, holding out the Zippo lighter. Sam’s eyes were gentle as he took it.  
  
“Thanks,” he said softly, looking thoughtful as he turned it over in his palm. He gave her a tentative smile.  
  
Wanda smiled back, considering for a moment, and then made a decision. “It was… for my brother. It’s traditional, in Judaism, to light a candle on the anniversary of someone’s death.”  
  
Sam’s eyebrows lifted. “That’s today?” Wanda nodded, and Sam ran a hand over the back of his neck. “I’m sorry.”  
  
Wanda went to say something like, _thank you_ , or, _don’t worry about it_ , but there was suddenly a lump in her throat. She settled for another nod, a grateful smile. Maybe I should leave now, she thought.  
  
“This belonged to my partner, back in Afghanistan,” Sam said suddenly, thumb pressed against the bottom of the lighter. “We got pretty close after a few months, y’know, we just sort of clicked. Some people over there they get kinda jaded, cold. You want to distance yourself from what you see. But Riley, he… You could always sorta tell he was scared. But he made you laugh anyway. It made it easier. We kept each other sane.” Wanda saw Sam’s throat move as he swallowed.  
  
Wanda sighed, half out of surprise. For a second, she considered putting her hand on Sam’s arm, but she didn’t feel she knew him well enough. “And this is how you remember him?”  
  
“Few weeks before the mission that killed him, we swapped things. I gave him this beat up keychain from college. It was his idea, so we’d both have something if the other didn’t make it.” He pocketed the lighter, not lifting his eyes. “Something personal.”  
  
Wanda smiled. “At our b’nai mitzvah, Pietro tried to convince me to swap gifts. _What’s mine is yours_ , he said, but I think he just wanted the bracelet my mother gave me.” Sam chuckled. In the end she had let Pietro have the bracelet, taken his notebook in exchange. “Sometimes, I dream I save him.”  
  
Sam cleared his throat. “Me too.”  
  
*  
  
When Wanda reached the hall outside her room, Vision was hovering there – not literally, as he was inclined to do, but something about his body language suggested he might be on the point of it. He broadcasted a certain anxiety. It seemed odd to her, initially, that someone manufactured had so many behavioral tics – but then humans adopted many to deal with the world. Why shouldn’t Vision, grappling with his own humanity, do the same?  
  
“You were out much of today,” he observed, moving so that he wasn’t blocking her doorway.  
  
“I needed fresh air, some time to myself,” she admitted, fingertip trailing idly over one of her rings. And then, teasingly, “is there a problem?”  
  
“No,” he answered hurriedly, and then calmed when he saw that she was smiling. “That is, I was informed you did not eat breakfast-,” he had tilted his head to one side, and Wanda imagined him consulting memories like data logs in his mind. _Find keyword: “Wanda”_ She tried not to laugh. “Col. Rhodes has suggested it is the most important meal of the day, and Mr Stark’s two donuts and whisky do not qualify.” The typical dryness of his tone often made it hard for Wanda to know when he was making a joke of his perceived unfamiliarity with human thought, and when he was being serious. She found it oddly endearing.  
  
“Dinner’s in fifteen minutes. Don’t worry, Vis, I just came to change.”  
  
He made an odd gesture, almost approaching a bow, and made his way to the stairwell.  
  
“Oh, just in case,” Wanda started, pausing in the doorway, “if you see a candle in my room, don’t put it out.”  
  
Vision looked confused for a moment. “Yes, I know. Mr. Stark already informed us.”  
  
\---  
  
PEGGY  
  
The boating lake was flat and silver in the summer haze, the glare too harsh on Peggy's eyes. Her entire body ached something dreadful from a run-in with a Hydra sleeper the previous night, and though she had tried to fob Angie off with the excuse of a hangover (the less specifics Angie knew, the safer she was, or so Peggy hoped), she had insisted that some fresh air was just what the doctor ordered.  
  
“That doctor of yours is a sadist,” Peggy had muttered, as she and Angie had passed by a brass band on their way into the public park. But if Angie heard her, she ignored it.  
  
As a result, Peggy was hunched down in her chair, sunglasses on, imagining she resembled her drunk Aunt Edith on Christmas Day. Angie was nattering away about a recent string of bad auditions in between bites of her hot dog, punctuated occasionally by a comment on the outfit of a passer-by or some tangent along the lines of: “...And when I turned up to the theatre, who was there? Marjorie. Y'know Marjorie? Used to act the prude about men at the Griffith until she found out she was sharing a psychoanalyst with Betty from down the hall? I saw him the other day, got a ring on his finger. Some poor girl has that on her plate now. Anyway the casting call was for a blonde. Marjorie's not even blonde...”  
  
And so on. Peggy found herself employing techniques she had learnt to endure torture. Every child's laugh set off a percussive alarm in her head, and every involuntary shift of her muscles was like needles.  
  
“Hey, English.”  
  
Peggy was starting to wonder whether she wouldn't have to feign sleep to escape Angie's perkiness. “Yes?”  
  
“Don't you ever get homesick?”  
  
Peggy blinked, head turning slowly toward Angie. She wasn't certain if the conversation had been dancing around this subject or if it had in fact come out of the blue, but Angie looked attentive, serious. Her upper body was twisted round so that she could lean into the space between their chairs. “I-” Peggy started, and then braced herself on the arms of the chair, pushing herself upright. “What made you ask that?”  
  
Angie chewed at her lower lip briefly, teeth standing out white against the red streak of her lips. “Well after the war, people were anxious to get home, right? But you stayed out here. Surely there must've been folks back home? Work you could do there?”  
  
She pictured herself saying _, and miss all this?_ Dismissing the question with flippancy. _Why not take the opportunity to travel?_  
  
She removed her glasses and let them hang from her fingers, casting a glance over the trees to where the skyscrapers seemed to warp in the heat. “The war...” The small word was a heavy, dangerous object to handle. A condensing of things too expansive and nightmarish to be specified.  
  
“The war changed London a lot, the places I grew up. Places that made me who I was. A place I used to go for tea, a dance club with a boy too hormonal to be any sort of dance partner. And not just those places but the people in them. Even the tiresome qualities drained out of them. I think there was a small part of me that believed – while we were off fighting – that if we could just win, then it could all be fixed. Go back to how it was.” She laughed sadly, lowered her eyes in embarrassment. “Terribly childish of me. But I know when I go back, it will still be changed – the more so, the longer I wait. And it will be a reminder of how much the war has changed me."  
  
Angie had fallen so uncharacteristically quiet, eyes full with pity and - Peggy was dismayed to see - tears. She was forced to look away, prop her sunglasses back on her face and thank God that this sweet, fierce girl had never seen what she had.  
  
"And so for now," Peggy finished, forcing a lightness to her voice, "this will do.”  
  
*  
  
The streets could scarcely be seen for the sheets of rain, the thundering of it on the pavements driving back every other sound. Peggy leant against the doorway, smiling fondly, feeling the chill around her ankles.  
  
“Don’t tell me you’re actually happy about the rain.”  
  
Peggy glanced over her shoulder to see Steve ducking out of the pub into the entryway where she stood. His broad shoulders still occasionally clipped doorways when he forgot his new size, and now was one of those times. Before the door swung closed behind him, Peggy could hear Dugan’s laughter like an explosion. Over some lewd joke, no doubt.  
  
“It’s nice to have a constant,” she explained, and looked off toward the end of the road where a pile of charred rubble was steadily flooding. She felt a tug somewhere in her chest. “There used to be a newsagent’s there. Always stank of tobacco, but the owner – Kenneth – was an angel. He’d talk about the news with me every morning. Called me Maggie. When I told him I was going overseas he said I’d probably win the war in less than a week.” She lowered her head as she smiled, embarrassed.  
  
“Sounds about right.” There was a pause, and she could almost feel Steve choosing his words. “He was in there?”  
  
A passing car drove a tide of rain water over the kerb, and it almost reached Peggy’s feet. “He wasn’t, no. Thank goodness. But uh, his son was killed in action a year ago, and it broke the poor man’s heart. He moved north, long before they bombed this street.” She sniffed once, almost inaudibly. She had heard the news through a letter from her mother, and was selfishly glad she hadn’t been in England to see his grief. She had never met the son – Jonathan - but it was a harmless, running joke between Kenneth and herself that Peggy would marry him one day (“How’s that fiancé of mine? He never calls!”). He had been Kenneth’s only family.  
  
“That was one of the things, back home, that really used to keep me up at night,” Steve mused, his eyes following a group of teenagers weaving their way through debris. “It wasn’t just knowing men – and women – were risking their lives on the front, it was the idea of people’s homes, their cities, being torn apart. And not just on our side." He looked at her, and it was as if she could literally see the weight on his shoulders. "Innocent people, in their back yards, on the way to the store.”  
  
Peggy couldn’t think of any meaningful addition to that, and her throat had gone tight. So instead, she took an umbrella from the stand and said: “Shall we walk?”  
  
Being taller, he held the umbrella without her having to ask. They had to walk close to make the most of the space, and his feet kept bumping hers, but he stopped apologising after the third time. Even temporarily, stolen smiles at each other chased away the gloomy thoughts.  
  
In the raw theatre of the war, unable to hide one's self, one's darkest traits from each other, it hadn't been necessary – let alone possible – for cosy dates at the pictures or romantic walks to know Steve. She was fairly confident he felt so too. He had asked her, in fact, if she would mind him keeping a picture of her when he went off on assignments away from her. She gave him a photograph taken half a year ago, but was still caught off-guard when she saw it tucked inside his compass on the newsreels. There was a thrill she hadn't quite felt before.  
  
Peggy only held Steve's hand once.  
  
After Barnes was killed, it was the most distant she had ever known him to be. It wasn't that the war hadn't touched him until then - of course it had - but Barnes was something precious to Steve. Something Steve was fighting to protect, even as the man fought beside him, trying to return the favour. When he came back from the mission, she only caught a glimpse of him on the way out of headquarters, but it was as though the impossibly bright light inside him had been snuffed out.  
  
She found him in the bombed out shell of the pub, and the sight of his exhausted, tear-stained face broke her heart. As they walked out of the ruins together, she slipped her hand into his, a reminder she was there. For a moment, he blinked down at them joined together, as if she had given him an unexpected gift. And in that moment, a sort of peace softened his features. He seemed to come back to her.  
  
\---  
  
TONY  
  
“So how’s Florida, your tan coming along?”  
  
“This is a business trip, Tony,” Pepper reminded him, exasperation clearing the miles between them. “Not that it ever stopped you.”  
  
He actually had the phone against his ear for once, wanting to keep the sound of her voice to himself. Vision was the only one in the compound for the weekend; Sam and Steve were off on a mission together (Steve had a lot of “assignments” he was private about these days, but whatever), Clint had taken Wanda into the city for a few days to avoid cabin fever, Rhodey was _classified, Tony,_ and Nat was off doing god-knows-what to god-knows-who. Still, having Pepper’s voice right in his ear made him feel closer to her.  
  
“Of course. It would be remiss of you mix to business with pleasure.” He worried for a moment that joke wouldn’t slip under the propriety radar, but Pepper scoffed and so he chuckled, triumphant. “Still you should visit that place with the olives, remember?” They had taken a short trip to Florida after the Chitauri attacks, and Tony had found this little place on the beach he swore up and down was the best food in the state. But more than the food – though it had been excellent – he remembered Pepper, a little sunburned, just tipsy enough to laugh more than usual, the way she looked at him across the table, the hotel room later.  
  
“I’m nowhere near Miami,” she said now. Her voice was polite but firmer this time, and Tony occasionally recognized when to stop pushing.  
  
He asked about business, because it was neutral ground and because – since Afghanistan, since Obie – he did _actually_ pay attention to what was going on. Even if he mostly kept it to himself, poring over the data at 3am drinking something Disgusting and Healthy TM instead of whiskey. Because Rhodey or Pepper would know telepathically if he didn’t. And because Vision still hadn’t learned that calculating someone’s blood alcohol level as a way of greeting was bad manners. And because Tony, possibly, gave a shit. There may have been a report from one Natasha Romanoff that implied self-destructive tendencies, he may have memorized it.  
  
Most of the time, he didn’t have to worry about Stark Industries – he’d left his kid (or Dad’s kid, his favorite) in the best hands possible.  
  
Tony didn’t ask about the tall, blonde, and (objectively) handsome thing, wrapped in a business suit, that Pepper had been photographed having dinner with in Stockholm. He didn’t want to be That Guy. He’d spent years of his life being every category of That Guy and was still working on undoing it (self-destructive tendencies, and all that, no pun intended). Besides, if it meant something, Pepper would let him know.  
  
Every phone call he dreaded that happening.  
  
“How’s Dr. Johar?” Pepper asked, pleasantly. Tony set his jaw and looked out of the window. Ah, yes, Dr. Johar.  
  
He had ignored most of Pepper’s suggestions to see therapists during the Extremis deal. God knows there was enough raw material for a shrink to work with after New York – to say nothing of before – but some kind of pride/stubbornness winning combo had kept him from agreeing. It was hard enough explaining himself to the two people he loved most. He was ashamed to admit he was afraid of seeing the headline ‘IRON MAN IN THERAPY’, of being treated even more like a time bomb than usual. But eventually, the tiredness on Pepper’s face was too much, the Something in Rhodey’s eyes was too much, and he gave in for their sake. After much research, he found his _own_ doctor in LA, a rare fit into the Venn diagram of over-qualified and Suitable for Tony.  
  
And so he went, and Johar was actually damn good. They chatted and laughed, he didn’t feel like a bug under a magnifying glass, she let him babble for the first two sessions. And he surprised himself when he went to the third session, been about to bring up something he’d been tinkering with when he suddenly blurted out, “so, Doc, since New York I kinda feel like I’m losing my mind. Any thoughts on that?” And she talked, and he listened, and responded. They covered the panic attacks, the not-sleeping, and the paraphrased version of Nat’s personality profile. He initially scoffed at the mention of PTSD, because he’d told himself what happened wasn’t worthy of it. She disagreed.  
  
Things were getting better, gradually, lighter. There were good days and bad days, but he had medication that was legit, he had ways to deal when the air felt like it had been sucked out of the room. He told Pepper he was going, because – even though he knew she loved him – he also knew what it looked like when somebody had one foot out the door. That person used to be him. But Pepper wasn’t just running away, she was moving on. And Tony was scrambling.  
  
One day, Johar, asked, “Do you think part of the reason you’re seeing me is to try and convince her to stay? Like when you destroyed the suits?”  
  
And That Guy wanted to say, _well obviously, Doc, I thought you were supposed to be smart._ But he had devoted a lot of energy to not being a jackass in these sessions, so he cheated his way past it. “Good relationships are meant to be about compromise, right? That’s what people always tell you? Pep told me that enough times, before we were even, I don’t know-” he waved a hand, “dating sounds so high school. Before we were us. If I can compromise, and not lose her…” His voice had gone quiet and tight without his consent, and for a split second he thought another attack was in the offing. His finger was poised on the table between them, like he was debating, pushing forward a point. He moved back, avoided the look of genuine sympathy in Johar’s eyes and gazed around the office – clean, expensive furniture, happy family photos, plants soaking up the California sun.  
  
“If you honestly want to change the way you treat people, do what’s best for Pepper, you need to behave unselfishly.” Her voice was tentative, without being patronizing. “If you compromise, and she responds by continuing a romantic relationship with you, then wonderful. But you need to prepare yourself for the eventuality that… in order for Pepper to be happy, in order to maintain any sort of positive relationship with her, your current one may have to end.”  
  
Tony smiled tightly, stomach churning. “If you love her, let her go, right?” He nodded, almost fitfully, before she could respond, cleared his throat. “Good advice, Doc.”  
  
Advice he’d taken, kept in mind. And then, and then, and then, Wanda – bless her - had stirred up his brain. Ultron. A trademark Stark mess was keeping him busy, and he didn’t have time to fly twice a week to pour his heart out. But instead of telling Johar that, or video-calling her from the lab and getting her to bill him as usual, he just didn’t go. He avoided her calls, and figured she’d stop when Ultron hit the news - she didn’t. But now there was more crap flying around his head, and suddenly Pepper was packing her bags, and he felt like if there was a deadline for going back to comfortably talking about all this, he’d missed it.  
  
So now, with Pepper in his ear, waiting, he considered for a moment, lying and saying _oh, she’s great, really helping_. What she wanted to hear. But then he remembered what he’d promised, and figured disappointment was better than lying. “Tell you the truth, I haven’t seen her in a while. I meant to, things just… built up.” Out of the window, he could see Rhodey running laps around the compound, and felt a moment of unspeakable relief, of gratitude. “It’s tough going back.”  
  
“It is,” Pepper said, softly, and when Tony replayed what he’d just said, his gut twisted. He tried to think of anything to say, to scrub it out. Not let her dwell on it for too long.  
  
But she spoke first, sounding surprisingly light. “You should go back to her, Tony. Everyone needs somebody to talk to, and sometimes when you swan around, being a hero, being you-” from someone else, those words could have made him uncomfortable, defensive, but there was a smile in her voice and he closed his eyes, wanting to hold onto it somehow, “it can be easy to forget what you’ve been through. I think you do, too.”  
  
“How’s that psych degree coming along?” His voice sounded like a grin.  
  
Pepper’s laugh, unselfconscious and sweet, filled his ear. He hadn’t heard it in a long time. God, he loved her. “You know I’m right.” She always was. They shared a pleasant silence for a few moments, almost enough to pretend nothing had changed, that she was on a business trip and in three days’ time he could turn over in bed and see her again. And then she said, “I have to go.”  
  
He nodded even though she couldn’t see it. “Do it. Crunch numbers, fire people, change the world.”  
  
“Give my love to Rhodey, take care of yourself, oh, and, Tony?”  
  
“Yes, Boss?”  
  
“When you sign the Accords, read the fine print.”

**Author's Note:**

> Song in first vignette is Only Forever by Bing Crosby.
> 
> Big thank you to the ever-generous Rose, who gave me advice for the Jewish observations in Wanda’s vignette.  
> There was a theory going around based on a scene in Agent Carter that Howard was Jewish, and I kept that in mind while writing that, hence the last line.
> 
> I didn't start out with the intention of Tony and Rhodey being involved, but the pairing needs more love, and it just seemed to come naturally so I let it happen.


End file.
